


The Consequences of Leaving

by psychosomatic86



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Lots of Angst, M/M, The Forbidden Dog Park, The Other World Desert, The SSP - Freeform, if you don't want to cry then I wouldn't suggest reading this, literally that's all this is, post ep66, worms...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-24 16:20:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3775288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychosomatic86/pseuds/psychosomatic86
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has the instructions.</p><p>The woman from the coral told him.</p><p>Now he must simply enter.</p><p>But they do not want him to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been needing to write some sad Cecilos for a while now, and this just popped up out of nowhere. It's probably really crappy as I wrote this in one go, but I'll be sure to make the final chapter super duper sad for you!

A flowing dress, stirred on a breeze conjured by mentality.

Wet.

Alabaster.

Silken.

_Rotting._

She rises from waves that lap and laugh and scream. Cerulean shatterings catch the sunlight, break the sunlight, creating and destroying sickly rainbows. She rises from the waves.

He rises from sleep.

A whisper. Soft lips, cracked and desperate and cunning and _soft_. They tell him what to do. They demand of him what to do. They kiss and pucker and…

_Words words words words_

For so long he has said words. For so long he has done nothing but _say_ , and now he is Listening. He is Listening to the words.

They are of a different language.

_No._

They are of the same language, just arranged in an unfamiliar order.

He understands them.

She smiles.

He does not see the smile. He sees only the words. Hears only the words. He is a Listener now.

*

_Goodnight, Night Vale!_ He falls in his excitement, laughing, hoping the growlers cannot hear him this time. He doesn’t want anyone to hear him anymore. He is so _tired_ of making them hear. Of the Listeners.

_He is so tired._

_Goodnight!_

***

The words are thick in his mind, buzzing, humming, _coaxing_ …

He repeats them as he walks, a familiar tongue forcing familiarity on to alien phrases. He thinks he should add words as he walks, to the people passing by, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want them Listening. He is no longer their Voice, not at this moment, and so there would be no point in talking to them.

Other things pass him as he walks, but one thing does not pass. It follows. He does not see the follower. He only sees the words and the message they relay. He shifts the strap on his shoulder and walks a bit faster, even if he doesn’t know it.

The day around him is clear, the air is fresh, and the birds are screaming. He mouths the instructions to the tunes of their wails, and a sweetness overtakes the moment as he comes to the final crossing set perpendicular to the Dog Park. Its great, obsidian walls rise and loom, imposing and beckoning. The birds do not settle on these malevolent protrusions, their sweet screams do not carry into the patch of municipal darkness, and he is saddened that he will not hear them when he finally enters.

The feeling passes, a boyish giddiness welling inside him, and a tentative foot steps forward onto the final stretch of pavement.

_A squeal of tires._

The follower.

He breaks into a run, bellowing aloud the words he was told.

_An engine. A bullhorn. Shouts._

He throws his legs at the most impossible speeds possibility will allow, arms pumping in rhythm, mouth chanting, eyes fixed upon the gates.

_Shouts. Shouts. Instructions._

These instructions are not conducive to his own. He does not obey them.

_Almost!_

They gates crack with a deafening percussion and throw themselves open.

_Almost!_

_Shouts. Instructions. Pleas. Threats. A bullhorn._

He will not listen. Not this time. Not anymore. He is not a Listener. _He is not their Voice._

_Bullets._

They imbed themselves with precision in the charcoal walls. As forced miscalculations. As warnings.

_So close! A few more steps! Come on, Palmer, just a few more!_

The final step, and a last resort is taken. The Sheriff will hang his head later, but for now, he holds it erect. One eye is closed, and the other is open. His hand turns, a finger squeezes…

Cecil jolts, thrown forward by an impact from behind. It is enough, and he sails through the gates, crashing roughly to the ground. The gates slam shut, and there is silence.

He tries to sit up only to fall forward, a deep, throbbing pain pulsing through his body. He brings a hand to where he cannot feel the pain and takes it away again.

_ There is so much blood. _


	2. Chapter 2

He stares worriedly at the plastic rectangle.

_He was supposed to call._

Nothing around him has changed. The sand stirs in whipping gusts. A mountain, upon which a light doesn’t blink, stubbornly persists in his periphery.

_He was supposed to…_

Nothing has changed.

_...call_

But this has.

Carlos is a scientist, and as a scientist, he exists solely to discover and understand. What he doesn’t discover and understand, he soon does. This missed call is something he does not understand. This is something he does not want to understand.

The implications…

_He…_

There have been many missed calls, he reassures. From a lost signal, to a battery momentarily whisking out of existence, anything could have caused this.

_Anything at all._

There is no comfort in the thought.

_What do you suppose…?_

But the words are left unfinished because there is no one to hear them let alone answer them. The masked army had taken to its nomadic ways a few days prior, and the klatsch of wanderers from the Poetry Week debacle had slumped themselves in a hopeless mass, completely unresponsive to any stimuli.

He is alone.

_Please be okay._

It’s a silly thought. Silly scientist! He is _the Voice_ for Glow Cloud’s sake! Nothing bad ever happens to someone _(something?)_ as important as the Voice!

_Right?_

Silly thoughts. Silly fears. They will laugh about this together when he arrives.

_When…_

Sitting warily, wordlessly on a dune.

He stares at the plastic rectangle.

***

_A jolt._

_Thrown forward as if hit by a bullet that has found its mark._

Carlos wakes.

Bleary blinking. Hazy surroundings. Misunderstood calculations of where he is.

_The desert other world. I am waiting. For Cecil._

The sky is just bordering on gloaming. A few constellations exist. And then don’t. And then do. And then don’t.

The light atop the mountain exists. And then does. And then does. And then does.

Nothing has changed.

_Cecil._

He fumbles for the plastic rectangle. For the unassuming piece of technology that is his only connection to his only love.

Nothing has changed.

He stands abruptly, hissing as his mind stays at his feet, waiting for the blackness and spinning to stop.

It dissipates slowly, particle by particle. A pixel of black replaced by one of tan. Of gold. Of rose, crimson, vermillion, plum.

Of black.

_Wait!_

He swerves his gaze back to that specific spot on the unspecific horizon. He blinks. Disbelieving. The blackness takes shape.

A man.

Neither tall nor short.

Thin nor fat.

He abandons all reserve and runs. Runs as if his life were dependent on the very motion. Runs and waves and cries. The figure runs, too.

They run.

They run.

The sun has quieted by the time they meet. The sky, presumably embarrassed by its showy display, has become more modest, donning a thick veil of steel blue roiling together with vast obsidian. The constellations exist. And then don’t. And then do, but in thicker processions and stories.

Carlos stops running. His hands to his knees, chest heaving. A short moment and the other man waits.

He looks up.

_Cecil._

“Hello, Carlos.”

They don’t register at first. The words. He stands for a brief second, hands on his hips, mouth smiling stupidly, eyes taking it all in. Ears refusing to.

_Eyes._

He does not have them.

“Hello.” He says it again, and the voice registers this time.

It is not his Voice.

Carlos steps back. Stumbles.

The man steps forward. Confident. He holds his hands forward. Reaching. _Smiling_.

He reaches and smiles and smiles and smiles…

And then they are hugging.

They are hugging so very tightly.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_I have survived worse._

He thinks this as he drags himself towards one of the walls. The park is very quiet. The grass does not whistle, the trees do not whisper. He can hear only nothing and the noises he makes. Puppy noises. Whimpers and squeaks.

Tears fracture his vision.

_I have survived worse._

_I have._

_I…_

He groans as he claws himself up into a sitting position. The smooth stone against his back, cold and indifferent. He sets to work.

What had Earl taught him?

_Shock. Always treat first for shock._

_Well._ He thinks this matter-of-factly, an adjective that has no business inserting itself in such a dire situation. _I don’t think I’m in shock._

He has more pressing concerns. Stop the bleeding. A tourniquet. He pulls out the yards of ace bandaging he had packed, silently thanking the gods that he did, and gingerly but bruskly wraps it around his torso.

His cries echo off the walls, and he wonders if anyone on the outside can hear. He cannot hear them. Only himself. Only the Voice. He is the only Voice. The only Listener.

He clips the bandaging into place and allows his head to fall back. It cracks painfully on the wall.

It means he’s still alive. The pain.

_I have survived worse._

He sits, unmoving. Blood soaked. Eyes scan the surroundings.

The park is relatively featureless. Yes, there are trees. Yes, grass, but they all exist almost as shadows do. There, and not quite. Ambiguous. Something a second glance does not clarify or provoke much interest in.

_How am I supposed to get to you?_

He tries to stand. Yelps. Sinks back to the ground.

_How?_

He blinks back more tears.

_Carlos…_

_How? How will you know?_

His phone!

He moves too quickly, and the stain spreads.

Precious moments pass. Blood. Breathing.

He moves slower this time.

It takes three tries to unlock it. He is shaking terribly.

Vision swimming, but he still finds the name. Taps.

He blinks.

There have been many hindrances to their communication. Cut fingers, seeping fluids, angry hissing, but never this.

**_NUMBER DOES NOT EXIST_ **

He turns it off and tries again, but this time, the contact isn’t even there.

His heart sinks, and then it is in his throat. And then it settles.

 _Nice try, but I memorized it years ago._ He seemingly forgets the flashing message not one minute prior.

He types the numbers. Slowly. He is shaking. Violently.

No message this time. No anything. It burns red hot and he yelps, dropping it to the ground where it pools in a thick puddle of melted circuits and hopeless despair.

He stares.

Blinks.

Stares.

The pain brings him back.

_Carlos…_

He weeps thoroughly. Great tears splashing into his dusty and blood flaked hands. He weeps for himself. For his losses. For the cruelty of inevitability and every careless decision that has brought him to this point.

He weeps for it all. For hours, or maybe minutes, or maybe no time at all, this is what he does.

Something brings him back.

A voice.

_“Such a shame…”_

The tears halt almost immediately and his head snaps to attention.

The pain is crystal clear and dull-rust sharp. It takes a moment for the white sparks to dissipate and for him to manage a coherent sentence.

_I-his someone th-there?_

He talks in hitched gasps, forcing the words through teeth that would like nothing more than to grimace in absolute agony.

_Please? A-anyone? I’ve been sh-hot and n-need m-medical a-huh-ttention-_

He stops to stifle a violent whimper. The exertion of talking, it’s too much. Something that is as a part of him as his beating heart is becoming too great a burden.

_His Voice._

He asks again.

_P-please? Someone? A-hanyone? I n-heed help!_

And then he realizes. He remembers. The innate inclinations of all Night Valians. Apathy. Indifference. Self preservation over anything and anyone else. Whoever they are, they will not help.

Unless…

_His Voice._

_I’m th-huh V-Voice of Night Vale! Th-the town needs m-me. Ple-ease! I am very impor-ortant to this t-town!_

A coldness settles on his shoulder. A hand.

_“Oh Cecil…”_

He stiffens at the words in his left ear, but he dares not turn in that direction. He places the speaker’s cadence with an ease that terrifies him as blood pounds in his head, pulses through the bandaging.

“If anything else, you know I didn’t want it to end like this, right?”

Tears well. He doesn’t notice. There have been so many already.

“I just cannot have you interfering with my plans anymore, Cecil. It simply won’t do.”

He gasps a sob but says nothing. The reality is taking its time.

“I was just hoping you would just be trapped here forever.” The voice moves around him. Circling. Preying.

_“But this…”_

He cries aloud as a sharp fingernail digs at the wound.

 _Stop!_ He tries to scramble away only to be rendered numb by the searing agony. He collapses onto the dirt, convulsing, eyes rolling into his head as the acidic pain engulfs him.

“Now we can’t have that…”

A coolness spreads from the area of neatly torn flesh. Through every nerve fiber, relieving his body of the heat, and he lies still.

“That’s all I can do for you. It won’t last long, but it will at least give you time to find him and say your goodbyes.”

He senses her presence leaving. Leaving him. To his fate.

 _Wait!_ He croaks the word with a tangible desperation.

She does. Reluctantly.

_Seconds. Minutes. Breathing. Blood._

_Why are you doing this?_

A fluttering movement, like a bird. But this bird does not sing a sweet terror. It speaks horrific truths.

“I am not doing anything. I am simply allowing Fate to do Its job.”

_But y-you tri-hicked me! He can barely form the accusation._

The hand returns, clenched. Angry.

“I did no such thing. It was never my intention to have you die. This was just a mishap I did not foresee. Nothing more, nothing less.”

He tries to understand this but cannot.

_Y-you can’t just le-heave me here! You c-can’t l-let me die! Carlos ne-needs me! N-Night Vale-_

In his haste to leave, he had completely disregarded his town. Yes, he was tired. Yes, weary of its horrors. Yes, in need of his lover’s arms. But it was still his home, his beloved Night Vale. What will it do without him?

He voices this, shakily. He asks. Pleads. Maybe this dire information will sway her.

“Oh that?” Her tone icy in confidence. “You needn’t worry about _that_.”

He feels the sharp fingernail again, this time along his cheek. Caressing. Spiteful.

“You see, Cecil…”

And he does see. Even before she says it, he sees.

“We already have a new Voice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *begins laughing maniacally*


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *maniacal laughter turns hysterical*

“You give-”

He squeezes tighter.

“such lovely-”

His own hands fall away. Limp.

“embraces-”

The blackness takes him.

_“dear Carlos.”_

And then the fingers release. The blackness leaves, whispering lover’s promises of a swift return, and another darkness takes its place. He gasps in ragged breaths. The pressure on his chest lifts, but he is too weak to attempt an escape. His throat burns, and copper spatters his teeth.

The smiler sits back and admires his work.

_“Sweet Carlos.”_

He spits a venomous reply. At least he assumes he does.

“What was that?” The smiler scoots forward. Legs crossed. A childlike simplicity that mocks him.

He tries to repeat it, but his brain is fuzzy. What should appear as one is tripled. His tongue isn’t working right, either.

“Oh come now.” The smiler slaps him. Hard. The sting goes almost unfelt. “I know you have something to tell me. Something important, I’m sure.”

The smiler does what he always has done, and the teeth look like a shark’s in his multiplied sight.

“I have something important to tell you, too, Carlos. Something _very_ important.”

_Shark._

A familiar finger strokes his cheek, and familiar lips whisper in his ear as a familiar hand runs delicately through his hair.

He closes his eyes, tears rolling slowly as the smiler tells him exactly what he is going to do.

The familiar hand turns savage. He feels the sting this time.

“Now don’t be so sad, _lovely Carlos_.”

It makes him sick the way he mimics. The shrill monster attempting his sonorous lover. It makes his insides burn.

The familiar hand returns. Gentle this time. Loving.

“It’s just how things were meant to be. You believe in Fate, don’t you, Carlos? Even a scientist has to believe in _something_.”

He smiles wider, but his Voice drops to something akin to a growl.

“This is just an adherence to the universe’s laws, Carlos. I can’t help it. I’m merely following the ebb of Time and Its inevitabilities. You understand that don’t you?”

There is a pause and then the words he never wanted to hear. They are almost a purr. Sensual and seductive.

_“Perfectly imperfect Carlos…”_

He weeps.

Disgusted.

Horrified.

And yet the caresses begin to feel genuine. Even as the bloody lips press to his own, he can’t help but move into the familiar osculation. He lifts a weak hand, entwining it into the familiar locks. He pulls the smiler desperately against his body, grasping handfuls of hair and clothing, too confused to think of it all. Of the implications. Of what it really is.

It is all so familiar, and if the smiler is going to do what he has told him, then maybe this is for the best. A last time. A last feeling. A last familiarity.

_It’s not him._

This is all he thinks, but he lets it happen anyway.

 


	5. Chapter 5

He feels nothing.

Or maybe he does feel something, he just doesn’t know it yet.

_No._

_Nothing._

That is what exists for him now.

That is all that has ever existed. Anything and everything that ever was and is and will be is absolutely and unequivocally _nothing_.

At least to him.

At least when his heart refuses and his mind collapses. At least when his lungs sigh their last and the billions of minute electrical impulses that dictate his very consciousness fizzle out.

At least when his Voice is no longer there to make nothing into something.

At least…

_How?_

A dense silence.

“I believe a better question would be _‘who?’_ ”

Her apparition settles next to him. He couldn’t see her if he tried. The tears won’t let him. They won’t stop.

He does not feel them.

_No._

He is defiant, an emotion that sucks at what precious life he still has left.

_How. H-how can I be repla-haced already. It’s only b-been a fuh-few minutes._

He stares blankly at the wall opposite him. What he asks, they aren’t even questions. They hardly exist. The Voice is fading.

Her coldness circles again.

“Time is a strange thing, Cecil. For some, it lasts decades. Others, centuries.”

He already knows this.

“For you, minutes. For us…”

She settles again. Unsettled. He hears the word even before she says it. He seems to be doing that a lot lately. Hearing. Listening.

_“Months.”_

He hears only denotation. The blood is beginning to congeal, but it is just that, just an action. It just _is_.

He feels nothing.

“It was months ago that we saw the Sheriff shoot you. Months since you were declared dead. Months since we began to initiate the new Voice.”

Her breath is cool and dry, like breath never is.

“Yes, Cecil, a lot has happened since you died.”

The fingernail returns to his cheek.

“Of course, that is _our_ time, not yours. You still have yet to die in _your_ time.”

_Pl-lease…_

“And we never do find your body. Well, _I_ do, but they don’t.”

_S-stop…_

“But there was a beautiful ceremony. Even the new Voice came. They spoke a few words in your honor, though not many. The Voice hadn’t fully manifested yet, and they couldn’t talk otherwise.”

The fingernail traces along his throat.

“Even now the Voice is still weak, but they will have It in time.”

Soft tears stain his cheeks. The words are there, but he cannot say them, he can hardly speak, so instead he lifts a weak hand. Grasps her own. She recoils sharply, the air turning sinister, a sudden heavy distaste and scorn hovering around him.

His eyes are closed, but he knows that were he to open them, he would see her. He would see her fury, her pain, her sadness. Her. He would see her entirety and all that she is.

 _Please, just let me go._ He can only think, but she can always hear. _Stop doing this to me, just let me go. So I can say goodbye to him. Please._

Her words are venomous. _“I am not impeding you.”_

He falls in on himself, sobbing dry heaves. She waits, emanating potent anger.

 _But you are._ He finally thinks. _The things you say. About Night Vale. About what I used to have… Just, just stop. Please._

He lifts his burdened head, eyes pleading, body shaking. She freezes. He is looking directly at her.

 _Please._ She remains transfixed.

_Please._

Her heart shatters and she turns, ashamed of the tears.

_Please._

She runs, but even this does not prevent her from hearing it. From hearing his last words to her.

From hearing her name.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hysterical laughter becomes half-hitched sobs*

The smiler heaves a great, satisfied sigh. Stands. Wipes his hands on his caked shirt and face.

“It’s so _good_ to have a fresh coat after being dry for _so_ long!” He grins. “Don’t you agree?”

He cocks his head playfully to the side, leering at the figure lying prostrate and broken at his feet.

He still expects an answer.

“Oh, why yes, Kevin!” he chirps, mocking his oaky tones, skirting gleeful circles around his body. “I’m very happy I could help! It’s so _good_ to be productive!”

The smiler chuckles grandly.

“It _is,_ Carlos!” He claps his hands in delight but a severity takes him, takes all but his countenance. He crouches to his knees, folding his arms across them. “Now if only everyone felt the same.”

“But,” he simpers, “one at a time. Isn’t that right, Carlos?”

“It sure is, Kev!” Carlos does not answer.

He beams violently.

_“I told you never to call me that.”_

Carlos is not the one who laughs.

“My bad, Kevin. It won’t happen again.”

The smiler smiles. The smiler laughs. He crouches again, stroking blood matted locks behind blood crusted ears.

He looks up as the sun begins tickling the edge of the horizon. It is nearly impossible to see against the orange glare, but he does so anyway. A figure. Limping desperately.

_s_

_m_

_i_

_l_

_e_

_s_

He leans forward and kisses the scientist's cooling cheek before whispering into ears that don’t hear.

_“I know it won’t.”_

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *half-hitched sobs become full blown, gushing howls*

He does not know where he is. He hasn’t known for hours. Or maybe days. Years?

He cannot see.

Cannot hear.

Cannot speak.

Cannot feel apart from a dull pulse he does not understand.

All he can do is continue. This is all his body can do. It knows something he does not. It must continue.

He picks up minute understandings as his body walks.

_Sand._

_A great, looming shape in the distance._

_A light._

_A Light._

Behind him, the sun is setting. He does not look back.

_How did I get here?_

This is not a question he asks.

This is not a place for questions. There is no time. His body knows. His mind refuses to.

_Carlos…_

The name breaks through the haze and it all comes flooding back. The blood comes flooding back.

He collapses to his knees, clutching his side. His hand returns, sticky and crimson.

_I have to…_

_Carlos…_

He forces himself to stand, walking blindly. Stumbling. Numb and monotonous. The name drives him onward.

Behind him the sun sets, the Light quivers, and he whimpers as it sears into him. He can make no other sound but this. The Voice is gone. _His Voice…_

_Goodbye. All I want is goodbye. Please._

The dying Light reveals an answer, shines on an unspecific spot. On his lover. Lying.

_Asleep._

He believes this.

_All I want… Please. He has no tears left. He cries all the same. Goodbye… it’s all I want._

He wants so much more.

The remaining Light casts his shadow long and distorted in front of him. It staggers as he does, and he focuses on it for certainty, moves his legs in accordance with it. It will lead him there. As long as it stays as he does and he as it, it will. It will. It…

It splits and suddenly there are two. Two shadows. One is shaking as he is. One is steady as he isn’t.

_Please…_

Both shadows stop. Both shadows understand. One waits as the other approaches. One shadow sinks to its knees as the other comes to a standstill behind it.

_Please…_

Two hands shake. Two hands reach.

Two eyes close. Two eyes are not eyes and remain open.

One Voice isn’t.

One Voice is.

_“I’m so glad you’re finally here.”_

One mouth smiles, though it had never really stopped. The other mouth does not smile. It quivers. Mimes a word.

_Please…_

One hand settles, strokes through his hair. Once. Twice. Pulls sharply to make his throat more vulnerable.

“Open your eyes.”

_Please…_

“Open.”

He pulls harder.

“Your.”

He weeps dust.

_“Eyes.”_

The words comes closer to his ears.

_“Or shall I open them for you?”_

Millimeter by millimeter, he reveals himself to the smiler.

_Please…_

Grinning.

“Good. Now,” he bends and kisses his forehead, “keep them open.”

The hand in his hair stays as the other leaves to find something. Their eyes and eye sockets stay locked. The hand returns.

“Be sure you keep them all the way open, Cecil. Be sure that you look. _Closely_.”

The black sockets and serrated cheeks are suddenly gone, replaced by a nearly identical face.

But this one has eyes.

This one does not smile.

_This one is him._

He opens his mouth to scream, but no noise comes out.

He urges his muscles to fight, but he is paralyzed.

He begs his mind to lose consciousness, but he is transfixed. Mesmerized.

By the mirror.

_“Someone is going to kill you one day, Cecil, and it will involve a mirror.”_

The silver glints at the edges where the last of the Light catches, settles where his light does, projecting a picture of self.

He doesn’t want to, but does anyway. Stares. At the self he’s never seen. At the features that are him and yet are so alien. He remembers a fifteen year old, and now he is not that. He looks at the now that is him.

A flicker.

He recoils instinctively, but it is not the flicker he doesn’t remember. The peripheral movement is just him. Just the smiler.

The mirror leaves. The man leaves. The one who is him is gone, and he wants to cry for his return. To see himself. To know before it is all thoroughly gone.

The hand in his hair releases and a violent kick lands itself in the middle of his back, sending him flying forward, scraping his face in the harsh sand. Another kick acquaints itself squarely in the bandaging that is more blood than bandage.

White bursts prickle his sight, but he does not feel the pain.

_“I should have known.”_

The smiler stands over him, shaking his head.

_Smiling._

He raises the mirror as though to look at himself.

_“I should have known…”_

There is no warning.

It makes perfect contact. The mirror. Caresses his cheek as the bullet did his side, but it only cracks.

At first.

The smiler is patient.

The second time is equally as - if not more - precise, and a shard imbeds itself smoothly, just below his cheekbone. A third time splinters his jaw with glass studding.

A fourth blinds his left eye.

A fifth and there is so little left in the frame.

The smiler throws the remains to the side. Gasping. Shoulders heaving. Mouth breathy. In his right hand gleams a massive shard, its jagged edges sing malice and murder against the darkening sky.

He sits delicately on his chest, leaning forward. He presses a kiss to the Voiceless lips, presses the silver to his throat.

“I know it’s cliche,” he giggles, “but I’ve always wanted to say this.”

His sneer splits his face in two.

“So, Cecil,” he leans so very close, “do you have any last words?”

His hand rests in the cool sand, fingers touching nothing.

Fingers touching something.

Something sharp.

He closes his eyes, moves his lips.

“What was that?”

A warmth trickles down his neck. He closes his eyes, building his strength.

“Come now, Cecil, you were the Voice! You must have something to say.”

He can see still see the hideous grin.

A swift movement. A single movement. The smiler blinks, disbelieving.

He sits prostrate, touches his neck. Touches what is now there. What is now flowing from it.

He gives a sly, lopsided grin. Gurgles. Collapses.

The Light has been replaced by starlight and it is this that tickles at the glass lodged firmly in the former smiler’s trachea, sending a shower of glimmers onto the thin, red river seeping onto the sand.

Cecil opens his eyes. Lying. Waiting. Waiting for him to come so he can say [goodbye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kd898V4U8lA).

_He will come._

A smell of rot.

_He’s coming now._

Of decay.

_He’s coming so I can say goodbye._

Of death.

_Carlos._

Death.

_Carlos…_

Death.

_He is…_

Death.

_He is…_

Dead.

_He is dead._

He manages a glance backwards to see the scientist a few yards away.

_You’re coming to say goodbye._

_You are._

Without feeling, he drags himself to his side.

_You are._

Without feeling, he forces himself to his feet.

_You are._

Without feeling, he walks.

_I am-_

Walks.

_coming-_

Walks.

_to say goodbye._

Collapses.

He twines his fingers through the blood crusted hair. Nuzzles his broken face into the blood soaked labcoat. Strokes the strong jawline, traces the perfect lips. Silent and dying and silent.

_This isn’t goodbye, Carlos, not yet. Not like this._

He lifts his dry face to look at his sleeping lover, because that’s all it is. Sleep. And in a moment, he will sleep, too. They will sleep and wake in a better place.

He will sleep.

But not yet.

_First I have to say goodbye._

But goodbye is forever, and this is not forever. This is just sleep.

_Okay._

And the tears finally return. Warm and wet. Spattering onto the brown cheeks, washing away the blood. He kisses each one, and then his bloody eyes, and then his forehead, and then his perfect lips that are all the more perfect in sleep. He lingers, the softness and fading warmth so familiar, but he is _so_ tired.

He pulls back, gazing at his only love who is only asleep.

_Okay. I’m ready._

He is fading quickly, but there is still some of It left. He would not be alive unless there was.

_Okay._

He takes a deep breath. His last breath. Strokes a finger through the perfect hair, lays a hand on the still chest. It is only sleep, and he is not saying goodbye.

He is only saying goodnight.

Above, the Void blinks down at him, watching. Satellites and starlight mingle. Blackness encompasses all and everything. It is a night as beautiful as any.

_“Goodnight, Carlos...”_

It is only sleep.

_“Goodnight.”_

He lays his head where he can convince himself a heart is beating in gentle rhythms, closes his eyes, and sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go cry in a corner over my own writing.


End file.
